Battle for Trost
by kjk2
Summary: The Battle of Trost forever remains as one of the darkest folklores of mankind. But for those remaining in Trost, it's not just folklore—it's a reality, and life must go on.
1. 1: Battle for Trost

Battle for Trost

 **The Battle of Trost forever remains as one of the darkest folklores of mankind. But for those remaining in Trost, it's not just folklore—it's a reality, and life must go on.**

* * *

The clanging of a hammer on hot steel echoed throughout the spacious smithy while Garcia wiped a bead of sweat off his brow. He stood above his son, his robust figure accentuated by his sturdy, crossed arms. He stared at the searing hot iron as it slowly began to meld into a blade. He remained silent, letting nothing but the sound of his son's work fill the shop. The can that hung in front of the smithy's entrance only clanked so loudly if an unwelcome visitor came to claim his own.

Gant ran his fingers through his drenched hair and huffed in a feeble attempt to cool down. He stared at the short sword in front of him and made a face before tossing the hammer in resignation. There was only so much worthlessness a person could take.

Gant wore his hair long. His hair had ended to the end of his neck, whilst shorter strands stuck to his face, dripping with sweat. He had an attractively sleek face: dark rounded eyes that, resembling those of his father, with cheekbones and a refined jawline—a definition resulting from the constant hours he had put in the smithy. The baby fat that clung to his face and stomach had finally subsided. His teenage years continued to shape him into a fine man.

"You haven't drawn the blade out enough," Garcia said, his fingers combing through his scruffy chin while he inspected the blade.  
The sound of his father's voice was like the buzz of a fly that he could never catch. It was always there, unwavering in its ignorance. Admirable, really. How one could stay so stuck up in his ideals, and not even consider an alternative.

"Dad," Gant huffed, his head hunched over. His shoulders continued to rise and fall with every huff that he took. "This is so pointless."

"No. For the tenth time, it isn't," Garcia responded as he walked closer towards the welding table. Garcia was in his late thirties, although the wrinkles around his eyes and the sprinkling of grey in his hair and facial hair made him look like he was well in his forties. His dark brown eyes had lost its rounded shape, his eyelids drooping as a consequence of age, but it still kept its solemn edge.

His eyes remained fixated on the blade, while Gant remained head downcast. Disappointment stuck in his head as he stared at the blade, like a piece of gum stuck on the bottom of a shoe. But he needed to stay civil, avoid using the word or any word resembling it. Gant couldn't afford to fail any longer.

"You're going to tell me that this thing is usable?" Gant scoffed as he looked up at his father, his long brown hair stuck to the sides of his sweaty face.

"Look, you need to draw it out a little more. Right now it's a little stubby…" Garcia started, as he grabbed the short sword and continued to examine it. "So what you gotta do is take this fuller here and…"

Gant clenched his fists as he dropped his head.

"I don't care," he mumbled.

"… _really_ draw it out while it's hot. See how it's still got that white-ish—"

"I don't care!" Gant shouted, staring at his father.

Garcia threw the welded blade in frustration, a resounding clang providing the only response. The failed weapon was another addition to the useless blades sprawled on the ground. The petulance of youth was truly the hardest battle to fight.

"You're not going to become a soldier to die for nothing!" he shouted back to Gant.

"I'm _living_ for nothing working on these shitty blades!"

"Watch your mouth," Garcia said, sticking out his index finger towards Gant.

"Look at this!" Gant said, taking a step back. The awkward should-have-been swords were sprawled on the floor. "You're going to make me keep doing this? How many times have I failed? Honestly? I've lost track."

"You're going to _keep_ doing it until you get it right!"

Gant raised his head and let out an exasperated sigh.

"What, you're going to look over me for the rest of my life while I make dildos for titans?"

Garcia's right arm launched over the welding table and grabbed Gant by the collar. Gant instinctively grabbed his father's burly forearm with a sweat-drenched hand.

"You're not joining the army, and that's final."

"Why? Because you prefer living in this dump instead?"

Garcia squinted his eyes as he stared at his son.

"You prefer living in this fucking titan made shithole?"  
Garcia paused. He strengthened his grip.

Garcia Kampfer, Trost's renown blacksmith. The first son of a blacksmith, and the third in his family. Two generations later, the smithy became Garcia's, and the orders never ceased to arrive thick and fast. The military heralded the Kampfer's for their quality and punctuality, the name reaching even Wall Sina. The Kampfer's mark was the crossing of the axe and the sword, a symbol representative of an honorable heritage, and a standard for quality. The smithy was no different.

"This 'titan made shithole' is our home." Garcia said slowly. He wanted that to sink in, for Gant to truly understand what he meant by 'home.'

Gant stared at his father, narrowing his gaze. Staying in Trost was akin to staying homeless, or staying poor, or living beyond poverty. The Scout Regiment had abandoned them. The Garrison Regiment had abandoned them. The Military Police hadn't even considered them. He wondered if his father understood that. He wondered how long they'd manage to remain in Trost, until there was no more to live off of. He wondered if the thought had even crossed his mind. The more Gant had thought about it, the more he considered it suicidal to stay within Trost, let alone Wall Sina.

"Let me join the army," Gant said. "Let me join the army. I'll make the marks to join the Military Police. We won't have to worry anymore."

His unwavering voice stood testament to his conviction. Gant eyed his father, standing tall, unwilling to let his father's grasp perturb him.

Garcia scoffed and released his grip on Gant's collar. Gant stumbled backwards as his body no longer required to be leaning over the welding table.

"You think we'll be safe within Wall Sina," Garcia replied as he crouched to pick up the still-hot blade.

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Gant hissed through grit teeth.

"What did I say about that mouth of yours, boy?" Garcia snarled as he shot up and pointed the now-disfigured blade at his son.

Gant let out an agitated sigh.

"Is that going to be it then? 'Watch my mouth?' What a great response. You know what, dad? You got me—I've completely changed my m—"

The distant sounds of clinking cans echoed from the entrance of the forge.

Garcia quickly whipped his head toward the entrance hallway as Gant's eyes remained fixated in the same direction.

"What the hell did I tell you to tell your friends if they want to see you," Garcia said, still staring.

"I'm not expecting anybody," Gant quickly retorted, his gaze still fixated at the hallway.

"Axe," Garcia demanded immediately as he placed the blade on the welding table.

Gant turned around to face the forge and picked up the steel axe that rested besides the fireplace before tossing it over to his father, who gripped it immediately upon feeling its handle on his fingertips.

Garcia crept towards the hallway leading to the main entrance before he paused and stared at the door in front of him. He felt the coolness of the concrete on his back as he approached the door.

There was no explicable reason for Garcia to feel any sort of sympathy for whomever he may see beyond the wooden door that stood before him and his street. He kept a white-knuckled grip on his axe.

Slowly, he turned the doorknob and opened the door in front of him, leaving just enough space for him to peer the street that extended to the left and right of the smithy. He saw the cans that hung between the two ferns besides the entrance.

There was nobody in sight.

Garcia looked left, right, then left again, just to make sure. There was nobody on the streets. Why would there be? A lonely passerby was a victim for the now lawless streets of Trost. Walking down the street with a sense of urgency, direction, or presence, wasn't enough for many.

Garcia brought himself back into the smithy before locking the door behind him. He made his way back over to the forge where Gant remained waiting, unmoved.

"Nobody," he shrugged. He tossed his axe back at Gant, who grabbed it in the air with the professionalism of a blacksmith's son.

"Nobody?" Gant asked, placing the axe back next to the forge.

"Nobody." Garcia repeated as he walked back towards his son.

"You're not expecting anybody?" Gant asked as he stared at his father.

"I never said that," Garcia said with a satisfied smile. "But Eileen knows better than to let cans make us aware of her presence."

Gant shrugged. He picked up the disfigured blade on the welding table and examined it. He only just noticed that his heart rate had quickened. It was hard. To forget what would happen in Trost nowadays. He always took big, main streets. He always kept his head down, his eyes focused on his beaten and dusty shoes, matching the cracked and littered roads caked in dirt and blood. He never went out alone. And walking in the dark was suicidal.

Gant looked down at the welding table and took another look at the sword he had just forged.

"You know, dad, this is a real piece of shit," he said, as he inspected the blade, turning it around and examining all sides of it. He stuck the blade back into the forge to heat the iron.

Gant wasn't cut out to be a soldier. Garcia knew that. Anyone who knew Gant knew that. His long hair that he refused to cut, and his slender figure made Gant look like belonged in a library, not a battlefield. He had the finesse to come out the victor in a debate too, but not in a fight. Garcia hated him sometimes. It was impossible to ever win in an argument against his own kid. Every word had a 'nuance,' according to him-whatever the hell that meant. He could only tell in an argument what it meant, since it was that nuance that always skinned him alive.

"You only get better with practice, Gant," Garcia chuckled, relieved. "Like I told you, you've gotta really draw out the blade. Right now it's…what'd you call it…a 'titan's dildo'?"

"Jeez, dad," Gant said, rolling his eyes. "You can't keep hold it against me when I'm caught up in the moment."

"Give me a break—like I'd get the luxury if I pulled that excuse," Garcia scoffed, ruffling his son's hair.

"Ugh," Gant pulled back. "I'm almost seventeen now you can't be doing that to me."

Garcia laughed, pulling his arm away.

Two knocks, a pause, and three knocks later, Garcia faced the hallway again, then back at Gant with a smile.

"That must be Eileen. We're gonna be eating right for at least the next couple of weeks," he said with a smile as he walked towards mantelpiece above the forge. There hung a curved blade resting in a scabbard.

"You're not serious," Gant said, staring at his father as he approached the sword.

"Totally serious."

"No—I mean you're not actually selling that to Eileen."

Garcia didn't respond as he grabbed the hanging blade.

"Dad," Gant repeated uneasily.

Garcia stared at the blade as he unsheathed the sword. He squinted as it caught sunlight and flashed brilliantly in his eye. He moved his hand instinctively and examined the spotless weapon. It had a curved edge to it, and the hilt provided a faint red glow that illuminated until the middle of the blade.

"Pretty, ain't she?" he asked, as if addressing the smithy, rather than his son. Her sword, and his axe. That's how it used to be. The Garrison bastards never touched them—nor the smithy. They knew better. But she was the one who really let her blade do all the talking. Her finesse rivaled that of the legendary recruit that single handedly saved Trost. The half-Asian. The one that could control that Titan. Ironic how his wife was also half-Asian. He wondered if that had anything to do with her ability with a blade.

He sheathed the sword again and began walking towards the entrance of the smithy.

"Dad!" Gant shouted.

Garcia looked back at his son.

"That's not yours to sell."

"You don't get to decide that," Garcia responded, almost immediately.

"And neither do you!" Gant shouted, slamming his palm on the forging table. "That was mom's, and you're half the swordsman she was!"

"There's sawdust in our bread and you're going to tell me what we can and can't sell?" Garcia hissed.

There was another knock on the door before Gant could open his mouth.

"Coming!" Garcia shouted, turning his back on his son.

"Dad!"

Garcia held the scabbarded blade in his left hand as he walked back towards the entrance of the forge. He remembered Fye's skill—her technique and her speed. He remembered how easy it was for her to cut someone down. He was weak, he remembered her telling him. Killing someone wasn't about the strength that you had, it was about the willingness to point a blade at someone, and think of nothing but coming out the victor…

There was another impatient knock at the door.

"Coming!" Garcia repeated, gripping the doorknob.

He swung the door open and stared at the brown haired girl in front of him, tears welling in her eyes.

"Eileen?"

A choking on tears and a small hiccup. "I'm sorry, Garcia," she whispered.

A figure in long khakis, a button up, and a small brown jacket that ended above her waist stood behind Eileen. Garcia looked up the officer, a tall woman who stood a head higher than Eileen's short, slender figure. She stared head-to-head with Garcia, one hand holding a piece of parchment for Garcia to see, the second hand hanging onto the cuffs used to tie Eileen's hands behind her back.

"Mr. Kampfer," she started. Her voice was crisp and held an even tone. "Can we come in?"


	2. 2: Joshua

II: Joshua

* * *

They called them skirmishes. Robbery was too damning of a word to categorize what they were doing.

Reality changed, and Joshua was aware of this more than anyone. Not that much had changed for him. The slums of Trost were always difficult, but the sun kissed wall that kept them separated from Titans was a constant reminder of how life could always get worse, like Shiganshina. Joshua knew of that, so did anyone who had to deal with the embarrassment of living in narrow alleys between markets and neighborhoods. Life could always get worse. So much worse.

When reality struck Trost, it wasn't a reminder to Joshua more so than it was for those who had roofs over their heads. No, it didn't matter how well you knew Trost. It didn't matter how honorable your profession. What mattered in Trost was how much you had in your pocket, and how far your name resonated between streets and districts.

Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise when Trost fell apart. The once populated and active streets of Trost were dusty exhibits of what once was. The once proud homes and stores of Trost were now smeared with dirt and pillaged of anything valuable, if they were even standing. Made sense though, when the Garrison regiment abandons you, who's to watch over you? When those enforcing the law leave, what happens to the law?

The intersection of Street 5 and Avenue 57 was a dilapidated, dusty wasteland of homes and corpses, an aftermath of the battle of Trost, left to rot as an aftermath. Amongst the blood, rubble, and corpses, Joshua found a corner for himself where a house had stood, and managed to cave out an eight by eight residence. He moved stones accordingly. He caked the blood with dirt accordingly. He tossed limbs or moved corpses accordingly. Before long, it was a luxury residence. He even managed to find a mattress. So he had somewhere back home he could go to. And he had a blade to call his own. Coming back home was always an experience. He usually needed to either flash a knife or unsheathe it.

"Oy,"

Joshua looked over at the man laying on his bed. A burly figure with short hair with a dented steel pipe resting beside him.

The man looked back at Joshua in response. Joshua sized him up.

The moonlight shined onto the man's figure. His dark, thick hair was held back with a dark headband. His arms were clearly defined: shoulder, triceps, biceps. The distance between his interlocked hands and the steel pipe were no less than a forearm away. His shoulders broadened his figure to the point where Joshua questioned whether he could even fit on the mattress. He wore a slightly undersized shirt caked with sweat and dirt with the type of fit that he once could manage. It rested in stark contrast to the toned arms. His breasts sagged lightly, and his sour stench made him more unbecoming than the patches of sweat and dirt that stained the shirt. His boots still remained on his feet, and their stinging sour wafted over to the entrance. It was different from that of concrete and rot, but unwelcome nonetheless. He continued to stare at Joshua. He had been waiting.

"Do I know you?" Joshua asked.

"No."

Joshua squinted his eyes and tilted his head slightly. He placed both of his hands in his back pockets.

"Hands where I can see them," the man said.

Joshua scoffed and paused, before raising his hands. The knife he picked out his back pocket slipped from his right hand into the jacket sleeve.

"Tough guy," he started, dropping his hands by his side. He clutched the ends of his sleeves with the tip of his fingers curled into fists. The knife rested on the end of Joshua's right middle finger.

"You're going to have to find somewhere else to stay, kid," the man said, unmoved from his initial position.

Joshua scoffed.

"Rude. I'm 22."

"You sure don't seem like it."

"I'm blushing."

The burly man scoffed and shifted his body, taking his rancid boots off the bed on the ground. Joshua's eyes followed from the boots to the pipe, which now remained a finger distance away from the still pretentiously interwoven hands. Joshua remained by the entrance.

"If you're as smart as that mouth of yours, you'll know it's of your best interest to go."

Joshua crossed his arms with a smirk.

"And why's that?"

The man stood up, snatching the pipe as he walked towards Joshua.

"I think you're capable enough to put two and two together—"

Joshua quickly uncrossed his arms, his left arm sliding across his right, and unsheathed the small knife through his jacket. He launched himself forward and thrust the knife upward into the man's breast. The man shrieked and stumbled before falling on his back. His right hand went straight for Joshua's neck, but as he felt the man's beefy fingers dig into his throat, Joshua make quick stabs with his knife, reopening the wound that had been pouring blood on the floor. The man shrieked again, but was curtailed by a gargling of blood that jut out of his mouth and coat his teeth and trickled down his face. Joshua took advantage by shrugging off the grip. He took his free hand and brought it towards the man's neck, muffling his throat as he writhed in feeble attempts to breathe while carving the man's chest before stopping below the breast and shoving his blade upward until the hilt stopped him.

The gargled screaming died away. Joshua felt the body limp lifelessly and picked himself up, looking down at yet another victim, while he cleaned his blade with the sleeve of his ruined jacket. He'd be damned risking his blade smelling remotely like this man. He silently took in a deep breath and sheathed the knife, placing it back into his back pocket.

No point in letting him finish his big talk and get ready for battle, or whatever.

Joshua squatted and went into the man's pockets. The left one was empty, but the right one sunk with a sack of coins. He smirked, his heartbeat quickening, as he snatched the purse and brought it out to observe. He stared at the bag, which remained in pristine condition, knotted neatly at the top, the leather a rich deep brown. He observed the bag from all sides, before finding the face of it: Kampfer's Steel.

Kampfer's Steel still stood? Joshua rolled his eyes. Of course it did. The connection between the military and the smithy was almost too obvious. Of course it stood. Of course it still had money.

Joshua pocketed the bag before grabbing the man by the feet and dragging his body to the entrance of his dilapidated home. Blood stained the dirt floor as Joshua hauled the body through the curtained exit. He brought the body out the exit and paused, staring at the man's boots, before looking at his, and finally pulling the boots off the carcass. He held his breath as he did so. He got up, tossed the boots into his home, and dragged the body from the entrance until it laid besides a bed of rubble, far enough so that the carcass wouldn't stink up his residence much. He stood back to observe the scene before grimacing. He walked towards the body again and took some of the larger stones to place in front of the body. He took deep huffs and tried to hold his breath as he did so. The feet smelled unbearable now that they were naked. He placed some of the stones on top of the man's chest and his head after he finished covering up his body. He stood back again to observe the scene. It was conspicuous, but it beat having to see him ever again.

He walked back towards his home and took off his jacket. The night had gotten more humid. He looked over to his left, and noticed the start of a fire. He smiled, tossed his jacket into his home, and jaunted across the street to another make-shift home.

Rusty tossed a small knife and a smooth stone aside as he leaned back against a splintered wooden pillar as he stared at the fire. He ran his fingers through his grey hair, which permanently remained combed over with sweat and dirt. His eyes held a hue just as strange as the color of his thick hair. They were sharp, constantly providing a look of focus that matched his character. They thinned out at the end with a slight angular curve distinctly different from the westerners of Trost. He donned a grey sleeveless shirt, adorning some rips and tears, which only supported his figure of raw strength. His outstretched leg rested in front of the fire, his boots placed by the end of the wall to his left. He was fortunate enough to own a rug, which made his place a fine location, a location only Joshua had had the honor to visit. Not that he had many visitors. Besides Rusty's outstretched leg rested a hatchet that had darkened marks of usage emerging from the grip and shoulder. Its head was smeared with blood. He laid his left arm on his left bended knee as he sat, waiting for the fire to start. Within the fireplace laid a ripped fabric drenched in red.

Joshua tapped twice on the wooden structure that somehow held as an entrance to Rusty's home. He held his forearm to his nose as he did so. The heads resting on pikes besides the entrance truly began to smell. Rusty looked to his left to see Joshua, and smiled as he stared back at the fire.

"I was wondering if you knew that guy," Rusty started, tilting his head towards the direction of Joshua's home.

Joshua scoffed.

"You're a bastard."

"So I take it you didn't."

Joshua rolled his eyes as he made his way across from Rusty, before sitting down and leaning against the rubble that somewhat enclosed this space.

"Enough about that," Joshua rolled his eyes. "Do you have any food?" he asked, looking around the enclosed hole.

"Do you have anything to offer this time?"

"Actually—yes!" Joshua replied without skipping a beat. He shifted his weight and went into his right pocket, before tossing the bag to Rusty. It jingled as it snatched it out the air and he stared at the purse. He observed the coin purse until his eye caught the etched mark: Kampfer's Steel.

"Kampfer's Steel?" Rusty read out loud.

Joshua shrugged as he stuck his hand out, anticipating a trade.

Rusty paused before grabbing a half a loaf of bread besides him, tearing it in half, and tossing it over to Joshua. Joshua nodded in approval as he observed the loaf. Not a single piece of mold in sight.

"You found bread," Joshua started as he ripped off a piece and tossed it in his mouth.

"Just like you found gold," Rusty responded quickly. "Kampfer's Steel still stands, huh?"

Joshua shrugged, ripping off another chunk of bread.

"Beats me," Joshua replied.

Rusty nodded in approval, before biting into his loaf. His focused remained on the leather coin purse. It's condition and quality stood in stark contrast to everything around it.

"Let's pay them a visit tomorrow," Rusty said, glancing over at Joshua.

Joshua smiled as he nodded accordingly.

"Yes; let's."


	3. 3: Morgan

III. Morgan

 **A/N:** This was an absolutely huge chapter. I spent far more time working on this chapter than I did on the last two combined. I had to think a lot about the direction this story, unlike when I wrote the first chapter, and because of that, I had to revise a lot. If you're one of the few that's been here from the start, I won't tell you that you have to go back and read the first chapter-the most important change that I made was that the soldier asks to enter the smithy, rather than declare that Garcia's under arrest, but I certainly won't be stopping you if you'd like to go back and reread heheh. I've also made some subtle changes to help with the flow and character building. Hopefully it won't happen again, but knowing me, it probably will.

Anyway, if you've come this far in my story, I am sincerely grateful. I fully intend on making it to the end, but any comment or review (or criticism!) would be seriously appreciated. Feedback of any sort really motivates me to keep going.

Thanks for reading, hope you like the chapter.

* * *

The wall stood forever as a humbling reminder of what could have been to the Trost district of Wall Rose. It was sealed—sealed by a _titan_ , of all things. Apparently, that titan fought for mankind. Apparently, lowly recruits on their very first assignment spearheaded the operation to save yet another chunk of mankind. But the titans were ever-present. In the early morning, the scratching of nails on stone echoed through the streets of Trost, crescendoing into grunts of audible agitation. By midday, the ground would shake as they slammed against the wall, expressing their irritation. The city, or what was left of it, would persevere by making jokes or ignoring it altogether, but that issue was never addressed as humanity turned its back on Trost.

Garcia stared down the street amongst houses and rubble and felt the earth tremble underneath his feet with the titans' thrashing. He saw the boulder nudge behind Eileen and the Regiment officer. The smithy was close to the wall, but mercifully distant enough that it still managed to stand.

"Who-who are you?" he stammered. His eyes raced between the officer, Eileen, and the piece of parchment. He thought of the last order he had received, but it had been so long ago he could not remember the details. He hadn't received any type of royal order in a while. In fact, he had been waiting for one. There was no other reason the Garrison Regiment would be at his door. There couldn't be. It was impossible.

"Morgan Devot," the soldier responded. Her sharp demeanor permeated through her tone, which was also present in her features. Her short black hair came down to her neck, and her bangs remained level with her eyebrows, but her piercing blue eyes were what provided the sharpness in her demeanor. Her perfect posture stood in stark contrast to her surroundings. Wholly unruffled in her physical appearance, Morgan wore her shirt completely buttoned to her neck and her suspenders underneath her jacket, which kept her spotless 3D Maneuvering Device strapped to her legs. The polished leather straps still caught sunlight as they wrapped around Morgan's khakis. The hilt of the blades rested on top of the device, and the two roses of the Garrison Regiment were proudly stitched onto her brown leather jacket. Her shoulders almost rivaled in size with Garcia's.

Garcia couldn't help but stare in awe—not only due to her size, but also due to her appearance. Her boots glistened. Her button up seemed freshly ironed—no creases, no wrinkles. Nobody dressed like that anymore in Trost.

Eileen looked up at Garcia for a split second, before looking away. He had missed her gaze, and she was grateful for that. She kept her head down while her arms hung loosely behind her back.

Eileen's long light brown hair obstructed others from ever catching her gaze, and despite her father's vocal protest, Eileen's bangs usually rested in front of her eyes. Facing adversity was always easier when one didn't have to physically face it.

Eileen had a slender build and stood at an appealing height. Despite her figure, which complimented her slim face and large, light brown eyes, her head usually remained downcast—generating a withdrawn demeanor that masked what could be an attractively jovial appearance. For a girl who seemed suited for marriage, she was never interested. Nor courtship in general. Nor education. She had learned how to read, and that seemed sufficient for her desires, although lack of dialogue did little to quell her self-doubt or sense of belonging. If she wasn't reading, she was working at her father's bar, which persevered as the town's sole local entertainment. But that didn't change its capricious atmosphere. Some days, locals would stand up against the drunken belligerents. Other days, there would be no one but drunken belligerents. The security of an open book was its most enticing factor. A world within pages remained far more appealing than the licentious world of a lawless pub.

"Morgan Devot," Garcia repeated, picking his words out carefully. "I'm sorry, I don't seem to understand."

Morgan smiled a thin-lipped smile that curled at one end.

"May we come in?" she repeated. She pocketed the piece of parchment and pushed Eileen's backside, prompting her to approach. Garcia shifted uneasily to the right and closed the door behind them.

The Garrison Regiment had abandoned Trost. To those living close to the wall, that was a running joke that had unified them. The closer you lived to the wall, the farther the Garrison's presence in your everyday life. He could not remember the last time he had seen a Garrison soldier in his streets, or at least one doing its duty. The last time he had seen a number of them, they had been at Douglas' bar, drinking to their hearts content, and calling their 'service' a fair enough payment. The pillaging was left unanswered. The famine was left unanswered. The grime was left unanswered. So why was one here now? With a handcuffed Eileen? He looked over at her. Her watched her long light brown hair messily in front of her face. She stood there by the door, silent, immobile.

"Nice place," Morgan started as she continued to walk down the corridor.

The clicking of Morgan's boots to the tiled floor was the only sound that resonated as she took her time observing the austere entrance hall. Down the hall to the left stood the entrance to the smithy, and directly at the end hung two white curtains, separating the hall from the more private kitchen and dining room.

"Dad, what's taking so—"

Gant peeked his head out from the end of the hall to see an unfamiliar face with Eileen, whose long light brown bangs prevented any eye contact. He did a double take as he saw the two roses of the Garrison Regiment, and his peeked head emerged out of the smithy to stand at the end of the hall. He stood tall, to make his shoulders seem just as broad as the soldier's. Her constitution caught him by surprise. He stared at her for a moment, before glancing at Eileen, who was motionlessly looking at her feet.

"Hello," he paused, but no other words would come out.

Morgan continued to gait slowly down the entrance hall. She brushed her fingers against the orange concrete wall as she walked closer to the entrance of the smithy. Gant took a couple steps away from the smithy entrance. His back was touching the curtains. Morgan looked up at Gant.

"Could you fix your father and me something to drink? Oh—and take Eileen with you. You two are familiar, are you not?"

Garcia watched Gant nod without a word and step back through the curtains before turning to his left towards the stove.

Eileen walked up to Morgan, and turned around. On cue, Morgan took a key from her back pocket and uncuffed her. The shackles jingled, then fell with a resounding thud on the ground. As Morgan went to pick them up, Eileen walked straight through the curtains. Only then did she brush her bangs out of her eyes.

Morgan turned to face Garcia, who continued to stand by the front door. She observed his wary demeanor. His hands were balled up, his brows furrowed, and his chin just slightly tucked in. His dark brown eyes were locked on Morgan; his lips pursed just enough for her to notice. She wasn't welcome. She took one step back and gestured with her left hand towards the entrance of the smithy with a curt smile. Garcia took one final look at Morgan before treading cautiously. It would be unwise to be uncouth. Morgan followed him into the smithy.

Kampfer's steel was a smithy recognized throughout the district of Trost, and it wasn't until she entered the smithy that Morgan could understand why. A modest candled chandelier hung from the ceiling of the smithy. At the far end of the smithy stood a large, black coal forge, a fire still crackling within the hearth. She saw the multitude of coals that kept the ember burning, caught underneath by a firepot that had an unconventionally tidy black matte finishing to it. Catching the smoke above stood a smart stone chimney, the stones smoothed out and stacked together to guide the smog. A mantelpiece was fastened to the root of the chimney where two pegs jutted above it. The tools were laid out either near the forge or on the workbench. The anvil rested besides the bench, the floor littered with short swords and other blades. She spotted the tongs that lay on the workbench besides another short sword that still burned red from recent heating, although it no longer emanated that white-hot hue that would allow its lengthening. The bellows rested besides the forge along with tongs, a fuller, and a chisel—all located within a couple feet of each other.

It was a smithy with an air of professionalism, but the austerity made it feel like more than just a workplace. A large window on the left brought sunlight within the smithy, two translucent white curtains hanging on both sides, and a small clay flowerpot rested on the windowsill filled with nothing but dried dirt. Morgan saw the sunlight reach the other end of the room, but the iron bars fastened in front of the windows created shadows that pillared the stone floor. Despite her positive first impression, Morgan couldn't help but think of a prison.

Garcia walked towards the forge and placed the scabbarded blade above the mantelpiece. He turned and walked to his right towards a round wooden table and sat at on one a stump-turned seat.

"Nice place," Morgan said, following Garcia. She slowly stepped towards the table before taking her seat and absentmindedly tossing the shackles on the round table.

"Thanks," Garcia responded gruffly.

Morgan slipped her hands from the table onto her knees as she stared at Garcia. His stare remained as unrelenting as it had been upon her entrance. He had one arm resting on the table, but his body had been turned just enough from Morgan to physically express his disinterest and skepticism. His right leg rested away from her and shook impatiently as he waited for Morgan to speak.

"Mr. Kampfer—Garcia—may I call you that?" she started.

"No," Garcia replied, without missing a beat.

Morgan closed her eyes. "Mr. Kampfer," she started again. "I'll get straight to the point, seeing as I don't want to be anymore of any inconvenience than I already am."

Garcia gave no indication of sympathy from her statement. His locked stare was enough of an unwelcoming invitation for Morgan to continue.

"The Military Police wants you arrested."

Morgan half expected for Garcia to scoff, or for him to come across and grasp her by the collar. Garcia stiffened. His hand curled into a fist as he maintained his composure. A man who could contain his composure. Perhaps this conversation wouldn't go as poorly as she expected.

"Excuse me?" he said, his tone deep with disbelief.

Morgan looked down at her lap and composed herself before she continued. The next words that would come out of her mouth would have to be sharp and concise.

"The Garrison Regiment requested one hundred and twenty five fresh blades of hardened carbon steel about six months ago, an order that's been requested at this smithy numerous times before," Morgan said, "and upheld numerous times before."

Garcia's eye twitched as he listened to Morgan speak. He did not recall an order six months past from the Garrison Regiment. He had worked with them before, and he had the inherent talent of remembering his orders, an asset that only made him a better blacksmith. But as much as he tried, he could not remember any detailed order from six months past. And naturally so. The Attack on Trost happened just four months ago. No; he had been waiting—that's right, he had been waiting for an order from the military. He couldn't afford to be remiss in his duties.

The nerve of the regiment; did they truly summon a soldier to his front door to arrest him for an order they hadn't provided? They brought a soldier to his smithy, yet they couldn't afford to provide any for Trost itself after being reduced to rubble?

Morgan took Garcia's silence to continue speaking. She could hear the kettle whistling in the next room.

"Instead, what the Garrison Regiment received was an attack on HQ north of Trost two days ago, where fourteen of our men and women died from scum bearing weapons with your mark."

"My mark?" Garcia repeated. The shock in his voice betrayed the stone-cold demeanor he had upheld since Morgan had stepped within his smithy.

"The embroidered crossing of the axe and the sword, is it not?" Morgan asked.

He heard enough to break his silence.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Garcia said as he shook his head. "I had no idea of this attack on Trost, and I certainly did not supply any wayside rebellion with arms to support their—"

Garcia stopped as he caught Gant's shadow from the corner of his eye. Gant entered the smithy with a tray of two cups and a black teapot. He placed a cup in front of Garcia and Morgan before placing the teapot in the middle.

"Hope the tea is decent. You may not have had it before—green tea—it's eastern," he said, looking over at Morgan.

"I'm sure I'll enjoy it," Morgan flashed a smile. She hadn't even heard Gant enter the smithy. She turned back to face Garcia, but Gant had spoken up again.

"I've always wanted to be a soldier," he started, almost as if addressing the room, rather than Morgan herself. She looked over at Gant, sheepish in his directionless admittance. Garcia looked over at Gant as well, his ears turning scarlet red, but he kept his composure. Perhaps Gant would learn something from this interaction and save Garcia a lecture or two.

"I've always wanted to be a soldier too," Morgan replied. "I was born in the Ehrmich District of Wall Sina, not too far from Trost, really…"

Gant's embarrassed look transformed into one of genuine enquiry. He was fixated in place, his hands still gripping the tray as he listened. She poured herself some tea before placing the kettle back on the table. The steam lifted out the cup as she spoke.

"My father was always against it. A 'woman should be preparing for courtship, not swordplay,' he'd tell me. He'd force me to read, but I'd go off fighting instead," she laughed. "It always seemed easier. Quicker too. Solved a lot of problems that way."

She took a sip from her cup.

"My father had a small stand in the marketplace by the plaza, selling buckles and books. A couple of street rats, about your age, came by, and took a fistful of whatever they could hold on to. It was a busy day, but I caught them, and soon after, my dad too. I ran after them. I was pretty fast back then. I managed to get myself on one of their backs."

She took another sip from her cup.

"Did you get them?" Gant asked.

"Oh, I got absolutely clobbered," she smiled, revealing several chipped teeth. "But that was my way of doing right. By the time my father found he, he told me if I was to fight, I ought to do it right. Turned out to be the same for soldiers. I signed up to be a recruit the year I was eligible, and been serving the people since."

Gant beamed.

"Maybe I should sign up too."

"Maybe you should."

"Thanks, Gant," Garcia said, nodding his head. He had heard enough pro-soldier propaganda to last him a lifetime. He could do without this.

Gant looked at his father, a grimace pulling on the end of his lips. But he had heard enough. He took his leave.

Morgan watched as Gant exited the smithy. She turned to face Garcia.

"Fine son of yours,"

Garcia ignored her.

"No one ever came to my smithy and ordered one hundred and twenty five blades. I would have remembered an order like that."

"Mr. Kampfer," she started. "To be absolutely frank with you, the Military Police doesn't care. They want you within Wall Sina, and they want you in chains. They want you to answer to your crimes—"

"There are _no—"_ Garcia started bitterly.

"There are no crimes," Morgan finished.

Garcia paused midsentence and stared at Morgan.

"You have committed no crime in the eyes of the Garrison Regiment. You were requested an order before the attack on Trost, and it's a miracle that this smithy remains standing. I see that, the Garrison Regiment sees that, anyone who's _been_ in Trost before and after the attack can see that. I have no interest in turning you in to officials who have no idea what the people of Trost have to endure, Mr. Kampfer."

With that, Morgan took another large gulp of green tea, and let out a refreshed sigh. Garcia remained frozen in place, looking away momentarily, his eyes wandered briefly as if searching for the motivation behind Morgan's sensibility. He shifted in his seat, brought his leg back underneath the table and faced Morgan. He poured himself some tea, but not before refilling Morgan's cup.

"So why are you here then?" Garcia asked. His initial skepticism had changed into confusion.

Morgan crossed her hands and leaned on her forearms. She wore a large, chipped, smirk that crossed from ear to ear. Her piercing blue eyes glinted with anticipation. This was the moment she had been waiting for.

"If you give us eighteen blades, Mr. Kampfer, we'll handle the rest."


	4. 4: Skirmish

**IV: Skirmish**

Joshua's heavy eyelids slowly lifted as he mumbled incoherently and pushed himself off the dirtied mattress. He drew a sleeve to wipe the drool off his cheek and raised his head. Rusty had been standing beside his mattress.

"Been waiting long?" Joshua asked groggily. He managed to sit up and began to rub his eyes. Rusty looked down at him with his arms crossed. His hatchet rested beside him.

Rusty scoffed. "Hardly. Just got here," he said as he looked away with an entertained look on his face. Joshua's composure generally functioned as his finest weapon. Watching drool trickle down his face was uncharacteristic of him, entertaining to watch.

Joshua seemed to catch on. He looked away as he spoke. "Well good," he started. He raised himself off his mattress and slipped on his newly acquired boots. The strap that tightened over the leather caught Rusty's eye.

"New boots?"

"Managed to find a pair. Not bad, huh?"

Rusty shrugged before he went into his sunken pocket to fetch the leather purse. He picked it out and tossed it to Joshua, who got a last minute look of it and scrambled as it bounced off his chest and into his cupped hands.

"You hang onto it," Rusty said. He had no interest in hanging onto goods that would only slow him down.

Joshua scoffed as he rubbed his eyes. "You're making a serious mistake," he joked. Joshua picked himself up and shuffled towards an exposed pipe jutting from the right of the entrance. A light brown poncho hung from it amongst a pile of rubble. He slipped the light brown fabric over his head and black t-shirt. The hooded poncho had been smeared with dirt and blood, but Joshua made sure to smudge the blood over; hostility provided little room for conversation.

Joshua's poncho laid loosely over his shoulders and ended by his knees, a sliver separating the shawl down the middle. His thin stature was only more exacerbated when standing beside Rusty's burly figure, the shawl over his body doing little more to flatter his gaunt composition. He preferred the loose wear, but more importantly, he enjoyed having his arms concealed. The ability to surprise complemented his agility.

His shaggy red hair rested messily in his face, falling just over his left eye. His large, blood red eyes provided a youthful look, although his sunken cheeks and hollow figure spoke more for his history than his face ever could. He flipped his hair as he turned over to Rusty, who was leaning against the wall before the entrance.

"You'll run?" Rusty asked. It was a challenge more than an enquiry. He looked down at Joshua as he fixed the front of his poncho.

Joshua raised his eyes as he stared at Rusty and laughed through his nose. He walked to his mattress and picked the knife from underneath the cloth he had been using as a pillow.

"And you'll catch me? Pray tell, Rusty, what then? Do you know how to get to the smithy?" Joshua started as he placed the knife in his back pocket. He turned to face Rusty.

Rusty's steely eyes bore down on Joshua, his brawny figure towering over him from up close. Joshua smiled as he walked past him, gripping his shoulder with a bony hand.

"C'mon—let's get something to eat. We actually have money for once."

Rusty watched as Joshua left onto the main road. He clenched and unclenched his fists until the waft of rotting flesh once again made its way under his nose. He made a face and grabbed his hatchet before walking out.

The sun slanted outwards on one side, casting shadows before Joshua and Rusty as they followed the main road towards the north end of Trost. The early birds were already scampering from place to place, peering behind corners hopeful for unwatched valuables. Rusty and Joshua watched with amusement as their feet followed the dusty trail. Sometimes, they would catch crossing eyes, but Rusty's height and tight grip on his hatchet made them unappealing company or considerations.

Joshua smirked as he saw two younger hopefuls cross their path. What used to be a popular spot with market stands had been reduced to rubble. Occasionally, Joshua could spot a plank or two of wood within the piles of rock, limbs, and dirt, but he would have questioned where the wood came from had he not been in Trost prior to the attack.

"'Scuse me, mister!"

A young boy stopped in front of Joshua and Rusty. He stared at the two of them, his two other friends only having turned around after reaching a considerable distance. Another clutched his shoulder, hissing at his stupidity before locking eyes with Joshua and Rusty nervously.

Rusty and Joshua stared at him, waiting for the young boy to continue. Rusty's thin eyes lowered down, his head held at an unwelcoming angle. He said nothing and froze, his fist keeping its tight grip on the neck of his hatchet. It seemed from Joshua's stiff demeanor that he seemed just as unwelcoming. The boy had frozen in front of both of them. A couple seconds later, he darted off and chased after friends, who had been laughing at his latest suicide attempt.

Joshua's smirk curled into a teethy grin until he clamped down on his lip to suppress his laughter. He continued to walk, Rusty beside him, and waited until they were out of earshot of the young scavengers.

"Rusty, whatdya think of kids?" Joshua asked, his eyes ahead on the road. Rusty's eyes wandered onto Joshua's back.

Rusty sniffed an air of disapproval, but Joshua remained silent. It wasn't enough of a response.

"They're awful," Rusty vocalized, turning his head and observing the clearing. There were less piles of rubble now than before, and more ceilings and structures. He saw someone sleeping over pieces of rooftile that hung from a jagged edge of a dilapidated ceiling. Joshua and Rusty continued towards the inner end of Trost, away from the outer wall.

"Awful!? They're kids!" Joshua whipped around, facing Rusty with feigned shock in his voice.

Rusty shrugged. "All they do is cry, beg, or shit themselves. I could do without."

"That's no good—you're talking about the future of this nation!" Joshua moaned.

Rusty scoffed as he saw another group of children dash by them. Another child, this time, a girl, had slowed her run, but her friend had the better sense to slap the back of her head, and the girl continued past them.

Joshua seemed satisfied with Rusty's response. He turned himself around again and placed his hands in his pocket, his cloak fidgeting as he did so.

"So I'm guessing you either had no siblings, or a really shitty relationship with your only one," Joshua said, guessing out loud.

Rusty's stiffened. His eyes remained glued on Joshua's back.

"No. No Siblings," Rusty responded dryly.

Joshua sighed halfheartedly. "What a shame. You'd make a great older brother."

By midday, they had reached the square where dilapidated buildings and some representation of populace complemented the piles of rubble that continued to litter the streets. What used to be a labyrinth of homes and stores now stood as a vacant wasteland, the collection of dirt and dust curdling with the blood, vomit, and waste that lingered at the corners of floor-laying stone.

A man rested at the edge of a once-was plaza, propped up by a pillar that originally decorated the entrance of a local produce market. He slouched over, his sunken eyes darkened from his downcast face. The thin rags on his back further accentuated his emaciated figure. Rusty would have left the man for dead, if it hadn't been for the occasional twitching of his fingers and toes, several which had been missing.

Rusty followed Joshua as he approached the man, the buzzing fruit flies dispersing as Joshua crouched down to stare eye to eye.

"Old man," he started.

The man remained still.

"I've forgotten how to get to the bar. Perhaps you can help me."

No response. No eye contact. The fruit flies were getting more comfortable.

Joshua stared at the man. The creases on his forehead lined with dirt, the yellow festered on the lower folds of his eyelid. What remained of his straw-white hair rested on his shoulders, although the top of his scalp had been sunburnt and peeling. It seemed that the flies had begun to take early advantage of their potential host; scabs and dried blood accompanied the bumps filled with white and yellow pus.

Joshua swallowed hard, then receded his arm into his pocket, looking away as he did so. He fingered the leather bag in his right pocket and untied the top, careful to prevent the jingling of coins as with the deftness of his fingers. He palmed a coin as he tightened the bag again.

He brought his hand out of his pocket and revealed a right arm pinching a golden piece between his index finger and his thumb. The glimmer caught the man's attention, and he slowly turned his crusted neck towards Joshua and Rusty. Cracks of exposed skin began to reveal as he moved for what seemed like the first time in days.

"Glad to have you with us. Let's try this again," Joshua started as the coin flipped between his knuckles. Rusty matched the man's gaze as he focused on Joshua's fingers. His hollowed eyes and peeled lips didn't provide much encouragement; Rusty questioned what information Joshua would receive upon goading him.

"The bar."

Nothing.

" _The bar._ " Joshua repeated again, his impatience striking his tone as he clutched the coin out of sight.

The man looked up Joshua.

The pale light blue pupil of his left eye caught Rusty off guard. His knuckles flashed white as his grip tightened on the throat of his axe.

Joshua stared at the man, who looked back at Joshua. His cracked lips parted, as if he'd at last provide some semblance of a response. Joshua felt the heat of his sourly dry breath, but no words accompanied the futile rasping of the half blind man.

Joshua refrained from wincing, but maintained his gaze upon the man. After a lack of response, Joshua sighed, picked himself up, and flicked the coin off his thumb. The man cupped his hands and brought his legs towards his chest as the piece bounced off his bony torso and into his palms. He clasped them together and brought them towards himself. Joshua looked away and proceeded to walk the other direction. Rusty followed after watching the man caress himself with nothing more than a single coin in his clutches.

"The bar?" Rusty repeated as he turned back to face Joshua. He hadn't received an answer, yet Joshua was already marching off.

Joshua looked over his shoulder. "What of it?" he quipped.

"You know where you're going?" Rusty asked. Joshua's pace hadn't slowed in the slightest as he followed after him.

"Yeah."

The two of them departed the plaza and took a beaten path that crossed streets and avenues marred with crumbled squares of what originally stood as homes. Rusty looked around as his feet continued to follow behind Joshua. The beaten path had squeezed into a narrow street, and the crumbled stone seemed to almost hug Rusty's feet. Rusty glanced around occasionally, curious to see what sort of company he'd cross paths with, but none came. An individual or two would be found creating space for him or herself, or in deep slumber, as he'd tell himself, amongst the rubble, but there lacked any sense of community as Joshua and Rusty continued to walk. Nothing but the crunching of stone and dirt underneath his feet filled the air while Joshua led the way. The way Joshua swayed side to side nonchalantly as he walked ahead made Rusty wonder how many times he had done this walk before.

He spotted the aluminum rig that functioned as a small ceiling from a distance out, but it wasn't until he heard the murmuring of voices that things started to fall into place. The makeshift roof stood above the near end of the bar to provide some shade to those who had decided to sit on the stacked crates. The tables were placed at a farther distance, comforted by the casted shade from what remained of the roof on at the other end of the space.

The front of the pub still managed to welcome visitors to a familiar looking establishment, as it remained one of the two sides that still managed to stand. The left and right sides of the pub had collapsed, taking most of the ceiling with it. A tapestry hung on the left side behind the bar, whilst the right side remained piled with rubble, allowing the warm, humid air of summer to fill the pub.

Just as casually as he had sauntered through the morning, Joshua entered the pub and waited for Rusty before shutting the door behind him, the jingling of bells hung on the upper hinges greeting their presence.

The inside was nearly as despondent as the appearance, although Rusty couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration that the bar continued to operate. There were no lights or decorations, predictably so, and it was the gaping opening on the right that provided most, if not all, of the visibility within the bar, although the filmy backdrop through the tapestry provided a nice atmosphere for those who sat by the bar.

Joshua sized the small crowd in front of him; it didn't surprise him to see people in the pub, even in the morning. People would eat whatever the pub could provide in exchange for what little money they gave, or sip on the one watered-down, stale ale they had on stock. Sometimes, when luck would smile down on Trost, the pub would have two varieties, or bubbles would actually float to the top of their mugs. Word would spread on those fortuitous days, and the pub would become a much livelier place, but what Joshua had currently been witnessing was nothing out of the ordinary—except one thing: three soldiers had been sitting at the far end, muttering amongst themselves.

Upon noticing the two roses stitched on the back of the light brown jackets, Joshua glanced over at Rusty, who had shifted his eyes to do just the same.

"How do you feel seeing those roses?" Joshua asked Rusty, a smirk emerging from his lips. He hadn't even managed to look up in time before Rusty marched ahead.

He plopped down at a table adjacent to the soldiers', propping his hatchet behind him. He sat the as far as the table could take him from the three soldiers sitting on a table over. Joshua slowly followed behind. He greeted the bartender who nodded back, and picked out the four other individuals who had been hunched over their bowls. No one sat at the bar, and no one bothered to sit near the soldiers. They would be fine. He took his seat facing Rusty, and savored the ease that sink into his knees.

Rusty wasted no time keeping to himself, and prioritizing on the conversation to his left. Joshua fidgeted for optimal comfort.

"She's late," one of the soldiers started, sighing impatiently. Her thin hair swished across his forehead, the bulk of it tied in a ponytail resting by her shoulders. Long strands neatly made their way behind her ear. She propped himself on her elbows, her blue eyes shifting back and forth restlessly.

Another soldier, whose long, angled face matched the curtness in his voice, responded. "She told us she'd be back and that she'd meet us here. So we're going to wait." He crossed his arms, his food and mug untouched and at a distance away in expressed disapproval.

The bushy-browed bartender ambled over to Rusty and Joshua's table. Joshua looked up at him with a small greeting while Rusty remained unmoved, interlocked fingers placed over his lips.

"We've got barley or ox-tail soup," he offered nonchalantly as he looked over the both of them.

"I'll take the ox-tail," Joshua said.

"Barley," said Rusty. His focus remained on the conversation.

The bartender turned to walk away, but Joshua quipped for his attention.

"We'll also take two of your finest ales," he sang, singing the last two words.

The bushy-eyed bartender turned around and raised a brow. He looked back at Joshua and scanned Rusty before responding.

"And you both got the money for that?" he asked.

Joshua smiled. "We know better than to ask for something we can't afford here."

The bartender paused momentarily, but he couldn't help flashing a smile from the corner of his lips. He turned back without another word.

"Besides, we can't do anything right now but wait," the third soldier responded, her short hair slicked back. "None of us want to stay here any longer than we have to, Holly," she finished with another large gulp of ale.

"Agnes is right," the longed faced boy affirmed with an approving nod. "If all we can do is wait, we wait."

The soldier named Holly sighed in defeat and exasperation as she looked away. She flipped her hair out of her eyes and crossed her arms before propping herself on her elbows again. Her Maneuvering Device clinked as she fidgeted.

"I just fucking hate waiting," she mumbled. "We've put all our eggs in one basket. I don't even want to think of what'll happen if she fails."

The bartender came back to Joshua and Rusty's table and brought two lukewarm mugs of ale. Joshua nodded in gratitude. Rusty continued to listen.

"I can't even go back to Stohess if I ever needed money like that again," Holly said bitterly as she dug her nails into the sleeves of her jacket. "I don't even know how my mom is doing since…" her voice trailed as she stared off. Reports of two titans destroying the city still managed to keep her up at night. Her mother was an avid believer in the divinity of the walls who'd spend most of her spare time in church. It helped repel the impurities of the titans and humans, she'd tell Holly…and now, eight letters later, Holly had yet to receive a reply.

The soldier named Agnes shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Unlike the other two, Agnes's uniform hadn't been strapped with a Maneuvering Device.

"We're _all_ trying to get home right now," the long faced soldier responded. "No one wants to be here more than we need to, and that need has ceased to exist a long time ago."

Holly rolled her eyes.

"Fucking Commander Gordon…" she said, taking another gulp out of her mug, stopping her tongue.

The bartender reappeared with two brown bowls for Rusty and Joshua. Joshua quickly went into his pocket and drew out the polished leather purse. The bartender came up and placed each respective bowl down before them. Joshua smiled, and the bartender returned it. The bartender's gaze caught the full leather purse, and strolled over to the soldiers' table, much to Joshua's surprise. He looked over at Rusty, who had already begun spooning chunks of steaming grains into his mouth. The bar always expected the payment at the same time food came out, but Joshua wouldn't ask questions.

"Anything else I could get for you all?" the bartender asked the soldiers to Joshua's right.

"Can't even afford another drink if I wanted to," the long-faced boy conceded with a sheepish smile.

"Shane!" Agnes hissed. Soldiers were protectors of the common people. What would they think if them if they couldn't even afford another drink? Without skipping a beat, she chipped. "Two more ales, please."

The bartender gave a courteous smile and nodded off. Joshua watched as he returned to the barback. Three gold coins sat on top of each other awaiting his return.

As Joshua began to pocket his purse, Holly caught the glint of the gold coins and the fine leather within Joshua's bony clutches. She turned to look at the red haired boy with a suspicious look.

"Hey," Holly started, addressing Joshua. "Where did you get that pouch?"

Joshua looked over at Holly and withdrew the hot spoon from his mouth. He didn't even get the chance at one of the bones sitting the steaming broth. Rusty lowered his finished bowl from his mouth as his eyes glanced towards the soldiers. He did his best to suppress the smirk that was creeping on his lips.

Joshua picked at a bone and quickly plucked it out of his hot soup.

"I found it," he said nonchalantly. His eyes remained focused on the steaming trailing off the bone as it sat between his fingers. He needed it to cool off.

"Where?" the soldier asked again. The Maneuvering Device clinked again as she shifted her body to face the two of them on her right.

"Off some corpse."

The scraping of the seat against the wooden floor grated against Joshua's ears. He paused momentarily, then began to suck the marrow out of the cooled bone.

"What do you mean 'off some corpse?'" Holly enquired.

The two other soldiers turned to face Joshua and Rusty.

Rusty took a swig of his beer before he looked back at Holly. The sitting boy and the standing girl were strapped with Maneuvering Devices, the hilts of their blades resting on the end. He counted just a measly two blades on each soldier, no other replacements sat deep in their devices. And then there was the soldier that remained distant and wary of the conversation. No, she stared as the scene unfolded, but she stared unarmed. Her eyes narrowed with skepticism and concern, but Rusty saw her balled hands resting on her knees, completely still. She didn't concern him.

Agnes clutched her knees nervously, but she provoked will her to speak. "Holly, sit down—" she started, but was cut off by the standing, bitter soldier.

"Show me the face of the purse," she said, still staring at Joshua and Rusty. Rusty watched as Holly creeped towards their table.

"No, I don't think we will," Joshua said, focused on the next piece of bone he had pinched between his two fingers.

Holly eyebrows rose incredulously. Expressionless, but wary, Shane, the long faced-soldier, took Holly's lead and followed along the other side of the table.

"I don't think you understand the situation," Shane started, his right hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

Rusty brought his now finished mug down on the table. Joshua played with the piece he had in his mouth, savoring every flavor that he could possibly taste.

"I understand that the last thing that I want to hear is more words flowing out of any of your fucking mouths," Rusty said.

Joshua almost spat marrow out.

" _Excuse me?_ " Holly screeched. She brought her hand across her waist and clutched at the handle of her blade. Shane reached across the table and clutched at her sleeve. Her outburst brought other heads to turn.

"We've had a long morning," Joshua interjected, the amusement still imbued in his tone as he watched the soldiers' reaction. "I'd like to apologize for my friend."

Holly remained tight-lipped. It was Shane who spoke.

"Show us the purse," he requested patiently as he lowered his arm back to the hilt of his blade.

Joshua scoffed and rolled his eyes. He looked up at Rusty, who maintained his same, bemused look.

"No."

Shane unsheathed his blade from his Maneuvering Device and stared down at the both of them. Holly quickly followed suit. The blades slid out her Device with a sharp fervor.

"That purse doesn't belong to you," Shane started. "But more importantly, that _money_ doesn't belong to you. It belongs to Holly, Agnes, and me. I don't care where you found it, I don't care how you got it, but as it happens, here you are—"

" _Here we are_ ," Rusty repeated as he stood. His shoulders tensed vigorously as he stared at Shane with his steely eyes. "You know what I can't stand about you Garrison cunts? I can't stand the way you all left this city for dead. I can't stand the way that you look down at the rest of us. I can't stand your horse-fucking-face ooze lies out of your cunt mouth."

Shane's cheeks tightened as his sharp dark brown eyes bore down on Rusty. The blade rattled in his white-knuckled grip as his throat went dry. He curled his left hand into a fist and regretted the chance he had to pull both of his blades.

"You're really going to die over a bag of coins?" Shane uttered through gritted teeth.

"Someone is."

It was as if life had abandoned the bar. Everyone froze. Joshua stared at the hands of all the soldiers, his right hand concealed under his shawl and firmly placed on the handle protruding from his back pocket. Rusty waited, his left hand prepared to swing back for the grip of his axe. Shane's nails dug into his palm as his grip remained tight over his blade. Holly's flipped the grips of her blades with the deft movements of her wrists, waiting. Agnes sat at the far end of her table, praying for nothing more than a standoff.

As soon as Shane leapt towards them, Joshua took his bowl and hurled it at him. Shane leapt back and howled as the soup sizzled onto his face. Rusty sprung back and clutched the end of his axe with his left hand. Holly had reeled her arms back as she rushed towards the both of them. With his other hand, Rusty thrust the table on its side, and Joshua quickly scurried behind it. Holly's blades met it and sliced off the top end, right above Joshua's lowered head, with one clean swing.

Rusty's thin, sleek eyes burned as he saw Holly dropped behind the table. Joshua caught Holly's movement, and with a quick thrust of his shoulder, shoved the table to topple over. Holly bounced back to avoid its fall and saw Joshua reveal himself from behind it, the reverse grip on his knife supported with the force of his body.

Holly positioned her wrists to skewer Joshua as he lunged towards her, but it was too late as his blade plunged into her lower belly before her wrists could angle her blades accordingly. She shrieked as the blood spewed out in response, splotching the right side of Joshua's face as he continued with the force of his momentum. The hilt of his blade sank as deep as her skin would permit. Her back smacked hard on the floor, and Joshua raised the blade and the gash higher up her stomach. Her shrieks were clipped by bursts of blood that would rush out her mouth and paint her face.

Shane's blurred vision came back only in time to see the blade of Rusty's axe swing straight across his head. Instinctively, he ducked. The top half of his face still burned a sensitively deep pink, but the pain was only exacerbated when his lowered head met Rusty's raising knee. He heard his nose snap, and dropped the blade that he had tightly held on to just moments ago. He clutched his face in a vain attempt to suppress the pain, exuding a shrill that he had never heard come out his mouth. The pain was brief; Rusty's axe came down from his right and sunk into his ribs, sitting deep in his abdomen. Shane's hands fell to his side as he sunk to the floor with the axe inside him.

What little courage that remained inside Agnes to speak left her once she felt Shane's hot blood splash her face. She froze in sunken despair as the burly man in front of him took a boot to Shane's carcass and yanked the axe out of his side. Shane twitched as he did so. She looked a little beyond her, and the boy, or was it just a skinny man, slowly picked himself off Holly's sliced corpse, rubbing the blood off his face with the cloak he had been wearing. He lowered himself and smeared the blood off his knife with Holly's pant leg.

Joshua breathed out deeply and waited for his heart to slow, closing his eyes and slowly opening them again as he withdrew his arm back behind him to sheath his knife. He looked over to the front, where those in the bar continued to stare. The bartender remained behind the stand with three new mugs in his hand.

Rusty took in a deep breath and looked down at the soldier, a gash in his right side pouring blood that continue to flow out, wrapping around the legs of the table Agnes still sat at. Joshua looked over at Agnes, whose gaze still remained fixated on her dead friends. She didn't speak, she didn't move, her eyes seemed hollowed out in disbelief—concern wasn't even something that she seemed capable of as of yet. Rusty recognized the gaze.

He turned around to face Joshua, who had been bent over searching for the third out of the two coins that had gone missing on the floor. Rusty caught the dull glint of the final coin coated with blood and fingered it out of the mess. He lifted his bloody fingers to show Joshua the final coin, who upon noticing smiled and grabbed it out of his fingers. Rusty followed Joshua to the barstand, and Joshua stacked the three now bloodied coins on top of each other. The bartender looked up at Joshua.

"This is for you," Joshua smiled wryly.

The bartender was not entertained. He stared at Joshua, then averted his gaze to Rusty. His thin lips were spread back, anger and annoyance pulling at each end. Joshua looked back at Rusty. Blood smeared the front of his shirt. The left side of his face was smudged with red that he had originally tried to wipe off with the back of his hand. Rusty looked back at Joshua, and then looked over to the bartender, catching his full gaze. Neither uttered a word.

Joshua turned into his pocket, grabbed three more coins out of the purse, and stacked those beside the other group of coins. He smiled sheepishly again before he left the bar. Rusty followed after him. The pub exuded nothing but a still silence until both Joshua and Rusty had gone, but upon their leave, the muttering amongst the four who had been eating and chatting continued once again, and the bartender began to roll up his sleeves with an exasperated sigh.


	5. 5: Eileen

**V: Eileen**

Gant's retreat to the kitchen wouldn't last long in seclusion. Soon after he had receded into the kitchen corner, Eileen's lowered head slipped through the noren curtains. She immediately took advantage of the round table merging with the inner corner of the kitchen. She gave a quick nod of acknowledgement before taking the seat facing Gant at the end of the kitchen.

Eileen's presence took Gant by surprise, but he gave a courteous nod back. It was a pleasant surprise. It also provided the opportunity to ask what exactly she was doing here—something that he had forgotten had crossed his mind.

"Anything to drink?" he started, looking over at Eileen.

Eileen peered upwards out of her lowered head before she looked away and considered the question. She slowly massaged her throat with a small hand and responded. "Water would be pretty great."

Gant lowered the teabox in his two hands and shuffled to the kitchen cabinet before drawing a cup. He walked over to the faucet, filled it, and handed it to Eileen.

"Thanks," she said. Her large gulps continued until she swallowed her way through half the glass.

Gant and Eileen had known each other since Douglas and Garcia acknowledged that they understood each other—a social understanding that seemed lost with everyone else who once maintained a business. There was a silent understanding between Douglas and Garcia due to their duties that still remained, a persistence that Gant personally had failed to understand. He hadn't spoken to Eileen about it, yet every time they had come to visit, he would spot Eileen either wiping down a table, or occupying herself with a customer.

He couldn't remember the last time that he had conversed with Eileen, let alone privately. An unprecedented moment, but, luckily for Gant, tinged with circumstance. It made it easier to start conversation.

The water simmered within the teapot underneath the fire-lit stove beside Gant as he turned to face Eileen. The teabox remained untouched on the kitchen counter behind him.

"So what are you doing here?" he asked her. His tone wasn't the type to address a stranger.

Eileen's raised her face as she looked to address Gant. She took her index finger and brushed her bangs away from her eyes, the longest strands at the end tucked behind her right ear.

Her anticipation made it easy for her to respond. She questioned whether or not it was worth mentioning to Gant: why she was here, what she was doing in their smithy for the first ever time, in handcuffs at that. In fact, she had decided from the moment Morgan had beckoned her to follow, waving her father off to tell him that he'd get two cases of ale by the next week if he had complied.

"Bad luck, really," Eileen answered. "There was some kind of mix-up."

Gant raised an eyebrow with a hint of skepticism. He studied Eileen's thin face, her slimmed cheekbones and her large brown eyes tinged with stress. He bit his lip and grimaced. It wasn't an easy topic.

"Sorry to hear," he responded.

The tears that trickled down Eileen's face had long since dried. Her large chestnut eyes lost the redness of stress and betrayal, but the seat certainly made it easier for her to shoulder the self-inflicted disdain that she had been cast upon herself since the long walk to the smithy. But it was best to be brief. What little she had heard of Gant, she had heard from her father, and Gant wanted to be a soldier. Garcia would complain to him every opportunity he got. Trying to change Gant, trying to make him realize the errors of his ways. But the boy just wouldn't listen. That's what she had heard. There was no need for Gant to feel a sense of skepticism for the military when he himself was trying to become an officer. And who knew? Maybe he'd actually do his job—the job of a soldier, a proper soldier. Trost could use one of those.

The uncomfortable silence filled the air for a little before Gant rubbed his nose and his voice had shot out before he knew it.

"I'm curious to know why the soldier is here," he started.

The sentence piqued Eileen's interest. It would be a moment for her to figure something out on her own.

"Do you want to be a soldier?" she asked.

Staring off at the distance, Gant focused his attention back at Eileen. She had her hands cupped around the sweaty glass, the condensation dribbled down her hands.

"Yeah, I do," Gant answered.

The now-dried button up shirt that he had been wearing rested easily on his shoulders. A size too large for Gant made the shirt drape over his torso, the tails wisping well below his belt. A breeze washed over the kitchen from the window beside Gant, and he felt the shirt tug to his side. For just a moment, he let his shoulders buckle, welcoming the wind as it washed over him, but Eileen could see the lines that etched his torso through the fabric. She enjoyed herself silently and brought the glass to her lips.

The breeze left as calmly as it came.

"That's encouraging," Eileen piped back after the silence entered the room.

Gant flashed a look of curious pleasure.

"What do you mean?"

Eileen looked over at Gant in surprise. She hadn't expected to clarify.

"I mean—well, I'd like to think you're a good guy," she started, uncertain of how she'd tie up her thought. "It would be nice to have someone to trust within the military."

Eileen's concern was unwarranted. Gant's back shot up in surprise, his posture suddenly coming back to him with a couple of spluttering "oh's." He rubbed his neck and looked down. Eileen smiled in amusement. She had been overthinking again.

Gant thought about what he had told his father, his aspirations on becoming a member of the Military Police, and _why_ he had wanted to…

The kettle whistled on the stove, and Gant immediately whipped around with an alertness that had initially overcome him upon entering the kitchen. He picked out two bags of green tea from the tea box, ripped them open, placed them in cups sitting on a tray, and positioned the kettle between the them.

"Be right back," he said as he grabbed the tray and began to walk off. Eileen simply nodded.

She replayed the conversation in her head a couple more times. She told herself she had made the right decision. There was no need to bring up the specifics as to how she had landed in the smithy. If anything, her created a new relationship, if every so slightly, with her redirecting the conversation.

Eileen finished her glass and placed the empty cup on the other side of the small square table. She folded her hands and began to ask herself whether or not now would be a good time for her to leave.

Just as she did, she heard a distant murmur from the other side of the wall as Gant began to speak.

 _"I've always wanted to be a soldier…"_

Her lips curled into relieved smile.

She had made the right decision.


	6. 6: A Deal and a Decision

VI:

Eighteen blades. That would be enough for Morgan, Agnes, Holly, and Shane. The blades were kept inside a lightweight steel scabbard strapped on each side of every soldier, within it six slits for six replaceable blades. Filling their scabbards was a luxury that could no longer be afforded, but eighteen would do. Morgan and Holly always shattered their blades; having replacements certainly wouldn't hurt. Luckily, Shane was a generally smarter fighter, and could preserve his blades much longer. Agnes still refused to fight. Seven for Morgan, seven for Agnes, four for Shane. A fair, reasonable request split amongst the three of them. That would be it: eighteen blades amongst the four of them—of course, sharing would be essential if it came down to it.

"Why eighteen?" Garcia asked. He rested on his arm and grabbed onto the edges of the cup with his fingertips as he took a sip. The hot water ran its way down and filled his body with a warm glow.

Morgan flashed her chip toothed smile. She slouched into her seat.

"They are only a couple of us who fight for your cause. A couple, but enough. I'm sure you understand when I say diplomacy isn't the issue."

Garcia looked at her questionably, but considered the circumstances. How Trost had degenerated. You could be stubborn and die, or accept and adapt. How many times had he told Gant to be careful when going outside? The windows weren't barred for no reason.

"Sure," Garcia paused. "But I didn't think it was like that within the regiments."

Morgan shrugged nonchalantly.

"Trost is Trost."

The candid dismissal of regiment discipline caught him by surprise. He said nothing.

"It isn't a big deal." Morgan replied, catching Garcia's shock. "Orders come and go from one small man to an even smaller one."

Garcia squinted. "What do you mean?"

Morgan leaned back in her seat and rubbed her chin.

"Well," she contemplated how to best answer that question. "It's not like Trost is a place people want to go to anymore. It's a wasteland now, but more than anything, a forgotten wasteland. People have heard about the attack on Trost, sure—but it's no longer a concern. Trost is now a byproduct of a freak accident, y'know? That's how they see it. Everyone's left it for dead, and that's only made it worse for the soldiers."

She paused and took a sip of her tea.

"A lot of the soldiers who're here are recruits who've barely passed their admittance exams, led by those who are here because they've been relocated for God knows what reason," she shrugged. Morgan caught Garcia's wide-eyed stare, and couldn't help but smirk.

"So now you see what I've got to work with," she said wryly.

Garcia had failed to conjure a response. The silence sunk into the conversation.

"So…yes, Mr. Kampfer," Morgan chuckled. "Eighteen blades are enough."

Garcia's fingers slowly ran over his lips before he ended up stroking his stubby chin. It was a habit of his, something he always did that helped him think.

"And what then?" he asked.

Morgan closed her eyes halfheartedly and shrugged. "Life goes on, Mr. Kampfer. Eighteen blades, and we'll take care of your worries. Hell, you'll never have to see me again."

Garcia went silent once more as he kept to himself. To call this a bizarre turn of events was an understatement, but it wasn't nearly as strange to hear from a soldier than it was to hear from a candid soldier. It almost seemed like he was speaking to a friend, or another survivor in Trost. The honesty! He wondered if he was being let in on information or if soldiers truly were this transparent amongst the people.

But now wasn't the time to think about that. What was it going to be? Would he take her word for it? Did the Military Police truly want him arrested? Could this soldier do something about it? _Would_ this soldier do something about it? She had been straightforward—reasonable too, but more importantly, she knew of Trost, the _reality_ of it all, what the district had now turned into.

Eighteen blades…but what was eighteen blades for a problem solved? Besides, this wasn't even the problem he had anticipated.

"When do you need them by?" Garcia asked.

Morgan felt the sharp edges of her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she chewed hesitantly. This was a big call. She had been thinking of how she'd word her request.

"By next week."

Garcia scoffed and leaned back in his seat. His pleasantly surprised impression vanished. Morgan's curt demand was ignorant at best, insulting at worst.

"Impossible," he said.

Morgan had heard of Kampfer's Steel's work, and its ability of forging one hundred and fifty blades in a little over a month and a half. Orders were always completed in a punctual time, and the longevity of each blade spoke for itself. Hardened carbon steel blessed both the smithy and the regiments—it was quick to make and built to last. But according to Garcia, eighteen in seven days was too short of a time.

"Impossible is a strong word, Mr. Kampfer."

Garcia leaned back with crossed arms and eyed her testily. He considered breaking down the entire process for Morgan—from hammering out the tang to sharpening the edges, edges that could only exist after the lengthening of the blade, the lengthening of the blade only possible after the forming of the tip—all steps that required a persist forging and waiting, forging and waiting. Perhaps he had been too quick to give credit.

"Impossible," he repeated. He made sure to sound out every syllable.

The way the words hung in the air was something that even Morgan hadn't been daft enough to test. She sunk back into her seat. It hadn't been worth compromising the progress she had made so far.

"Two weeks."

"Seventeen days," Garcia sniffed.

Morgan smiled. She had heard from others that Kampfer's Steel made promises by the days. It was more specific that way.

"Done."

Morgan dug into her back pocket and took out a small purse of coins, roses of the Garrison Regiment etched into the face of the light brown leather. She placed it on the small round table before Garcia.

His eyes lifted upon catching the pouch out of Morgan's pocket, but he quickly caught himself and regained his composure. The tightened knot of a starved stomach loosened just briefly in reprieve. Once Morgan had released the bag from her grasp, Garcia reached towards the middle of the table and clawed for the purse before weighing it in his palm, a deep jingle of coins the sole response. He undid the bright red knot and peered inside. The gold shimmered in his gaze, and he gave the purse another quick shake. He searched for a more familiar silver or bronze, but only the rich yellow peered back at him from within the pouch.

Garcia looked back at Morgan.

"You've given me too much." It was difficult for Garcia to say those five words with such an even tone.

Morgan brushed the comment away with a small simile and a turn of her cheek. "My gift to you. Think nothing of it. Perhaps this could be the start of something, Mr. Kampfer."

The unfamiliar warmth of a pleasant gesture rushed through Garcia from head to toe. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this way about a stranger, let alone a Garrison officer. This one was different. This one seemed to truly understand what it meant to maintain a connection—a connection of mutual benefit.

"Perhaps," Garcia remained unmoved in his seat.

Morgan flashed a small smile and rose from her seat. "I'll see you in seventeen days, Mr. Kampfer."

His eyes caught Morgan's before she had turned, and he nodded to himself. Seventeen days. It could be done if he melted down the failed blades sprawled in his smithy.

But hearing the clacking of her boots on the stone floor was more relieving than anything. Not only did he manage to make some money, but also manage to remain unsuspecting. His plan hadn't failed him yet.

He heard a pause between the clicking of boots, and then the creaking of the wooden door as Morgan shut it behind her. A silence fell through the smithy once more, and Garcia rested his forehead on his interlocked fingers as he soaked in the rare solitude he hardly ever received nowadays. The smell of charcoal filled the air as the forge in front of him brimmed with smoke.

Morgan felt the brittle dirt crumble underneath her feet as she caught her breath. She stood facing away from the smithy and looked up at the heavy sky. The looming dark grey cotton candy clouds began to nibble at the sun, casting shade and a nice breeze that promised rainfall. Her heart was still pounding, but taking in deep breaths did somewhat calm her down. She had never been a good liar, but she grew more and more into it the longer she survived in Trost. Lies made more sense to her now. They didn't need to be convincing more so than they needed to be reasonable. Fortunately for her, the attack on HQ was something that she could reference to her advantage.

She made sure to watch her step and avoid the thin wire suspending those empty cans cast between the decorate ferns at the front of the entrance. She kept a mental note to herself for the next time she'd come back. Also, the wrapping on the door. Three knocks, a pause, then two more, was it?

Her quivering fingers had finally settled, and with that, she began her walk back to The Bar.

It was funny how Trost worked now; "The Bar," they had called it. Not because that was the name originally given to the place, but because that was the only place left in Trost that served alcohol. Agnes had been the one to tell the rest of them. Morgan felt her lips curl as she replayed the scene in her head. Agnes always lowered her tone when she did everyone the favor of sharing anything about Trost. Morgan had to lean over at times to hear her speak. She could still remember Shane's question, and how he would squint dramatically as he'd ask: how the hell could any place in Trost serve alcohol without being looted?

It was the sincerity in Agnes' response that stuck with Morgan. The Bar was the only place in Trost that functioned as a social setting. Everyone and everywhere else had been wiped out, and those who had the gall to try again got looted that same day. It would be Holly this time around who'd scoff and roll her eyes. Skepticism was her most noticeable trait. How was The Bar any different from other barkeeps in Trost?

To this, Agnes shrugged. That had stuck with Morgan, although she couldn't understand why. It wasn't until much later when she realized that Agnes' response welled a sense of admiration for the barkeep, a sensation she experienced for the first time since she had been in Trost,

Morgan couldn't really say she had admiration for her party. Friendship was one thing, but friendship stemmed from respect, not admiration. Even respect was a loosely used term. If anything, Trost was what brought them together. The first time she'd been assigned to "maintain order" within some godforsaken region in Trost, she had been chucked to a suffering burst of violence in the southeast side of Trost, along with other low level regiment officers like herself. Halfway down the main road towards the southern part of Trost, and Morgan had realized that they hadn't even been assigned a squadron leader. Of course, by that point, it had been too late. The soldiers arrived at a large intersection where daily rations would be provided to citizens, right where the neighborhood's large supermarket had once stood. Except now, rations were no longer provided to those living in that region of Trost. Those who had to strength to riot raised hell in response. Some busied themselves running in and out of homes with bags of rice or loaves of bread tucked underneath their arms. Others pounced on the soldiers with a blinding rage, caving in foreheads with stones in their hands. Others tried to rationalize, pleading with their dirty fingernails clinging onto the leather sleeves, begging and sobbing. A sickly old woman had pleaded to Morgan, the tears leaving streak marks on her dirtied face. She told Morgan that she couldn't bear chewing on tree bark any longer, and revealed her hands, the ends of her fingers severed and crudely stitched together.

Morgan also met Holly and Shane during the riots. It wasn't so much the experience more so the outcome that brought them together. None of them had considered brandishing their blades, yet all of them did so for the first time that day.

They all ended up banding together from moments like that. Moments of desperation. Moments of hopelessness. The taste of desperation stood in stark comparison to the cushy life back home within the Ehrmich District, deep within the innermost wall.

The midday tremor broke her train of thought. Morgan froze for a moment, her body acting on its own, before she reminded herself of the Titan tremble, she had called it. Sometimes, she could hear the collision of bodies on concrete, miles away, and as she walked south back to The Bar, she could see the heavy shuddering of Wall Rose, the concrete enclosing quivering with each agitated slam.

She continued to trot south. The tremors had taken months to get used to, even if her body couldn't naturally adjust to what seemed like a surefire sign of danger. With the grey overcast, the scenario before her seemed like the beginning of the end. Morgan wondered how long Wall Rose would last. The boulder that enclosed the opening bounced upon impact each time, but mercifully kept its place. The great protector of the human race…taking the shape of a stone boulder. How pathetic we are, Morgan scoffed at the thought.

It was a predictably desolate walk. One that could be made on a main street, something Morgan still remained grateful for. But something caught her eye at the end of the intersection. Two figures seemed to be walking her direction. She squinted for a moment, a dull glimmer shimmering off an ax head catching her eye. She could see the sculpted shoulders of this figure, and it immediately caught her on the defensive. Before she realized, her right hand rested upon the hilt of her blade.

But it was the figure in front of the man that made her think twice about the necessity of brandishing her weapon. A short, willowy figure waltzed in front of the towering threat, a carefree panache in his step. His long red hair streamed over the top of his head, the tips of his fingers the only part of his upper body uncloaked by the dirt-ridden poncho resting on his thin shoulders. The figure's hollow cheeks made Morgan wonder just how long it had been since the man—or was it a boy?—had a full meal. Juxtaposing his figure to the burly one beside him, it almost seemed as if malnutrition had stunted his growth…but upon considering that thought, it became clear to her that her question was something that ought to be considered, even she hadn't been comparing figures.

They were just a couple paces away from crossing paths when he had spoken up.

"Oh-ho! Another one! Can you believe it?" the boy remarked, almost like a thought expressed out loud.

Morgan caught the boy's eye. His blood red eyes lifted with a bemused curiosity as he observed Morgan's attire. Morgan had learned that as a soldier in Trost, her status as burdened her at any given chance.

She responded back with a courteous nod, fingering the steely handle of her blade as she did so.

The tall man next to him stared down at Morgan. Morgan had only reached his shoulder. She raised her eyes to greet the man, but his steely gaze remained still. The way his eyes had been shaped caught her by surprise. She hadn't seen eyes like those before, thinning out at the end, sharp slate pupils filling the narrow form. His slicked black grey hair almost gave him a professional look, even with his ragged off-white shirt, smeared with dirt, ripped at the sleeves. He didn't say a word.

It was the axe, choked to its neck that deterred Morgan from speaking. She had no interest in taking chances.

They crossed without another word. Morgan hadn't bothered looking back.

But it seemed like the boy did.

"Not as friendly as the others, this one," the boy had said, his voice trailing over to her direction. She kept her pace, her fingers tight around the butt of her handle.

But nothing else occurred. She continued to march along, the dirt crumbling underneath her feet, and the footsteps subsiding from earshot. She jerked her head slightly, conceding that she had never seen a more odd pair within Trost. She quickly turned to look over her shoulder, and spotted the two trotting along, maintaining their pace, continuing on the main road.

It would be a desolate walk from this point on. She was heading south, north of the bar. Despite being closer to the inner wall, north of the bar remained a wasteland littered with rubble amongst what few homes, separated by the main road. The road cut down the middle, a wide space that once held hosted parades and fresh marketplaces. Now, it was the only viable option to travel from northernmost part of Trost to southernmost edge of Wall Rose.

Morgan marked the plaza in her head as the southernmost part of Trost before reaching utter waste. Beyond that, complete destruction. It was a miracle to even find half standing homes or shelters at that point. But what was to be expected? Trost horseshoed around the southern edge of Wall Rose, and upon the Titans' infiltration, the residences, stores, markets, schools, parks, bars, and brothels that hugged the 50 meter tall wall had been reduced to nothing. Morgan could still remember spotting running rampant on Trost, even a hundred and fifty miles away on watch within the Ehrmich District. She could remember how her fingers trembled, how her throat went dry, how she could hear the collective of an entire district from the southernmost part of Wall Rose, all the way to the easternmost region of Wall Sina…

She crossed her arms, clutching each end as if suffering through an inconsolable cold. She thought of what it would be like, to one day come out of her house, and watch man's only salvation against the Titans fail before her. To see neighbors, friends, family, pinched between two oversized fingers, like an uncommon bug, only to be swallowed, rather than inspected. She had heard stories of Titans, how they wore a permanently awkward face, each one unique, and each one dead beyond the eyes. To to be plucked off the ground and tossed into a mouth, teeth grinding, blood squeezing out the corners of a pair of fat, wet lips…

Morgan quickly shook her head, upset with herself. She looked up ahead and dropped her arms to her side, her hands receding into her back pockets. It was a long walk, and the last thing she needed were thoughts like those to complement the desolate, lonely route ahead.

Civilization always had a way of alerting one if one was nearby. Morgan spotted the squatters could be spotted on corners of the street. Thickened blood curdled and cracked with dirt came in larger frequencies splotching the roads, and the smell of rotting flesh and sour filth grew greater and greater as the plaza came into vision. Morgan brought the sleeve or her leather jacket to her nose more and more often, but she held her breath instead whenever she caught someone's eye. She usually rested a hand on the end of her blade. She hated the loathing scowls smeared the faces of those that caught the glimpse of her uniform—her buttoned up shirt, her black boots, the two roses etched on the back of her leather jacket: "to protect and maintain orders within the walls." A sick joke, at best.

The back of The Bar appeared in her vision, but she squinted, as a familiar light brown caught her eye. She slowed her pace, and her thinned, squinted eyes slowly grew into icy blue beads of shock. Her jaw tightened as she rushed into the exposed side of The Bar. A couple feet away, two light brown sleeves belonging to two different arms just out from a pile of stones, bloodstained and seeping the color red.

She felt the pellets of rainfall from the sky. The greying clouds masked the sun, pulling a think sheen of grey over Trost. The _plot plot plot_ of the drops dripped onto her leather jacket.

Her white knuckled grip pulled the blade from it's slit as she rushed into the pub. No one but the bartender was inside.

"DOUGLAS!" she screamed, a rush of anger gushing through her voice.

The bartender's thin figure whipped around, his shaggy grey hair smacking his face. He ran a quick hand through his hair to keep strands out of his eyes. It was a shock to hear his name come out of an officer's voice.

He threw his hands up in a quick surrender.

"No, no, no, no!" his head shook quickly, pre-emptively answering the only question he knew would escape from Morgan's lips. He saw the thin blade stop right at his neck. He looked quickly at Morgan's sharp glare, and pointed both of his index fingers to his right, where the mopped and dried blood, chunks of entrails, and a splintered table remained from a slapdash clean up job.

Morgan turned to face the scene. Amongst the smeared red and disarray, chunks of dry, fleshy pink said it all. Her arm quivered in anger, but she had to repeat it to herself—not because she wanted to, but because it was right: Douglas didn't do this. Douglas didn't do this. _Douglas didn't do this._ She lowered her arm and took in deep breaths. Her voice always quivered in anger. Right now, she needed to ask questions, but she needed to be in control.

She closed her eyes, and took in one last deep breath before sheathing her blade and approaching the bar.

"What happened?"

The bartender released a sigh of relief. "You missed a good fight."

Morgan immediately reached to her side and brandished a sliver of her blade. "Don't fuck with me, Douglas," she hissed through her jagged, gritted teeth.

Douglas was an expressively nonchalant figure. If anything, the end of Trost suited him. Soldiers, civilians, it no longer mattered to him who came through his bar. With currency a virtual nonfactor in Trost, everyone was equal in his eyes. Perhaps that was what allowed him to survive for this long. Humor was his go-to, and even during the most dismal of times, people seemed to appreciate it.

But, of course, soldiers thought otherwise. They seemed to always consider themselves a little above it all, which he found amusing. The inept now became the official, if his word as a survivor in Trost had any weight to it.

He ran both his hands through his shoulder-length grey hair and pulled it back from his face before his thick, oily locks fell to the sides of his face. His face expressed amusement as the cheeks pinched together with a sly smile.

"Apologies," he started, his deep voice always providing a general sense of calmness. "But maybe you can understand my frustration. Unless you're here to help me clean up, that is. Have you ever cleaned up after a severed body?" he pressed his palms together and drew them apart. "So messy. It makes you wonder just how much shit we've got squished into ourselves."

Morgan wanted to brandish her blade again. She wanted to swing across the bar, and cut clean through Douglas' thin, brittle neck. She wanted to see his decapitated, lifeless body slump to the floor, and talk his carcass: yes, she knew damn well what the innards of a human body looked like when exposed. But she had come here for answers, and she had no reason to suspect she wouldn't get them.

"What happened here?" Her level tone masked the agitation and fury that continued to weld inside of her.

Douglas sighed and scratched the back of his head, his hair once again obscuring his face as he lowered his head. He grabbed a warm mug still full of beer and placed it on the bar before Morgan. She took it in silence.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Came back here to get one of your friends a couple refills," he raised his head at the mug that Morgan had sipped from. "And before I could even get back, two of your friends stood over another two of my beloved customers, arguing over who knows what."

Upon hearing that, Morgan brought the mug away from her lips and placed it arms distance away.

"Go on," she said, still with an uneasy look on her face.

Douglas looked back at her and raised a quick eyebrow before finishing.

"That was all, really. Those boys killed two of your friends. Pretty quick too. Reckon I missed half of it with a blink. I stood here, waiting for them to sort it out, and before I knew it, it was over. Although to be fair, I got a couple nice pieces out of it," he smirked. "I figure the next time one of you kindergarten officers come around, I'll be getting more than just one keg with how nicely I got tipped off."

"You said this came from two customers," she repeated. The rest of the details were moot

"Aye, two. The little one without all that clunky shit," he pointed at the Maneuvering Device strapped to Morgan's legs.

"Manuevering gear,"

"Yeah, whatever," Douglas yawned as he picked his ear. "She just left. Thanked me for the meal, and didn't look back. Quite the professional, that one, but it's ironic—two boys show out of nowhere, and they pay me better than a soldier! You lot need more work than I thought!"

Morgan turned to face the bloodied end of the bar. She had heard enough. The pain of her nails digging into her palm suddenly registered in her head. She felt the sweat form between her dirt-coated fingers.

"Two boys?" she asked, her voice hardly a whisper.

Douglas raised an eyebrow towards Morgan's direction. He caught a glimpse of her tightened lips; her brows furrowed together, her sharp blue eyes steely locked, staring deep into the far end of the bar. Her shoulders remained stiffly locked, hands behind her side, as the short ends of her leather jacket quivering just slightly in response to her shaking.

It was pouring now. Douglas remained sheltered underneath the aluminum rig that covered the bar. Morgan remained exposed to the rain on the other side of the bar.

"Two boys," he repeated. He raised his voice just slightly to fight the pelting of rain on aluminum. "One with red hair, quite the mouth on him," Douglas recalled, thinking of how noncompliant the boy had been with the soldiers' requests. "And another large figure with big shoulders, carrying an axe. Asian, too—if you even know what that means. Didn't even know there was some lingering around. I thought they'd all got wiped out a while ago."

The images registered in Morgan's head just as quickly as the words escaped Douglas' lips. Two boys, a red haired figure with a big mouth, and an Asian with big shoulders. Asian—that's what they called them, those people with the oddly shaped eyes. She felt herself grinding her uneven teeth, pressure points pushing down at all uneven ends within her jaw. It annoyed her even more that the skinny little bastard had a mouth on him. 'Not as friendly as the others,' he had said. Remorseless and nonchalant. She slammed a fist down on the bar, seething with anger.

But they were going north, those bastards.

She would find them. It wouldn't be hard. She'd have to leave now, though. The more time she wasted, the farther north they'd go, and the longer they went unperturbed, the greater the chance of finding some ragtag rubble to hide within. The rain would incentives their search for shelter.

Morgan crossed her arms by her hips and grasped at the hilts of her blades. A satisfying _sching_ echoed within the enclosed end of the barstand as she unsheathed both her blades. She found a half standing pillar jutting in the distance on the north edge of the plaza, and took aim before a thought hit her like a truck.

No one would bat an eye if either of those two died died, but neither would they if Agnes had died as well.

She dropped her arms as her eyes raced back and forth, her thoughts doing the same. Concern rushed through her body quickly replacing the blinding rage that had enveloped inside of her. Agnes…she didn't even have her goddamn maneuvering gear! A soldier, in Trost, completely unarmed, and miles away from HQ. She had only a couple hours before sundown, and an unarmed soldier stuck in Trost for one night…she shuddered at the thought.

"Where did you see the soldier go?" Morgan asked.

The question piqued Douglas' interest. He raised his eyebrow once again, but it was a different type of a surprise. An impressed type of surprise.

"North," he said with a smile. "Where else but to take the main road?"

 _Perfect._

She bent her arms once again, and pulled the trigger attached to the top end of the hilt. From the gear strapped to her waist, two spearheads attached to an iron cable shot out from each side of her and stuck into the underside of the bar rooftop. Hearing the _chink_ of a secure hold, Morgan leapt into the air and let the cable tug at her waist, catapulting herself onto the roof. The cylindrical maneuvering device attached to the back of her waist spit a puff of gas as she landed. Spotting the north side pillar once again, the hooks shot out onto the pillar before she jumped off the roof and bulleted towards the upright, like a pebble released from stretched slingshot. She grappled onto a different piece of ceiling in midair, and began to swing her way up north, grimacing as the rain pellets now struck her face hard, with nothing but the hissing of her gear behind her.


End file.
